The carriage wheels of the "Iron Caravan" rattled against the obsidian-paved streets of the Imperial Capital, but for Deacon, the sound was more than just friction—it was a diagnostic. The high-pitched whine of the leaf springs and the slight drag on the rear left axle told him that the three-week journey from the North had taken its toll. He sat across from Julian, his eyes fixed on a notebook filled with "Logistical Insight" notations, while the younger brother stared out at the sprawling, white-marble skyline of Solstice.
Solstice was a city designed to make men feel small. Its spires were tipped with "Sky-Glass" that caught the sun, turning the entire metropolis into a shimmering, artificial star. But beneath the beauty, Deacon saw a city of staggering inefficiency. There were no sewer systems, only "purification mages"; no heavy transport, only lines of labor-slaves and expensive beast-carts.
"Don't look so unimpressed, David," Julian said, his voice carrying a mix of nostalgia and warning. He adjusted the silver-threaded lapels of his coat. "The Capital doesn't care about your foundries. They care about lineage. Here, your 'Seed Drills' are just toys for the lesser lords. To get an audience with the Empress, you have to prove you aren't just a northern fluke."
"I'm not here to impress them with lineage, Julian," Deacon said, closing his notebook with a sharp snap. "I'm here to show them that Oakhaven is the only reason the South won't starve next winter. If the Empress wants to play politics, she can do it on an empty stomach."
The carriage came to a halt at the Outer Meridian Gate. A squad of Sun-Guard—the Empress's personal elite—stepped forward. Unlike the Rose Guard, these men were silent, their armor made of a heavy, non-enchanted bronze that had been polished to a mirror finish. The leader, a man with a scar running through his lip, held up a hand.
"Halt. Lord Cassian of Oakhaven? You were expected two days ago."
"The roads in the Western Marches are in disrepair," Deacon replied, stepping out of the carriage. He stood at his full height, his posture reflecting the ingrained discipline of an E-7. "We were delayed by a broken axle and a lack of proper drainage on the Imperial Highway. My apologies."
The guard narrowed his eyes. Most nobles would have blamed the horses or the gods. To blame the road itself was a strange, almost offensive observation. "The High Steward is in the Hall of Petitions. You are permitted two attendants. The rest of your 'luggage' stays in the caravansary."
"The 'luggage' stays with me," Deacon said, his voice dropping into a register of command that made the guard blink. "Those crates contain the Mark II Prototypes destined for the Royal Audit. If a single seal is broken by your men, the contract with the Oryn Trade Guild is void. Do you want to explain to the High Steward why the grain shipments are being cancelled?"
Julian watched the exchange with a dry throat. He had spent years in this city learning to bow and scrape, yet here was his brother—the man he thought was a simpleton—treating the Sun-Guard like fresh recruits.
"He's telling the truth, Officer," Julian added, stepping into the breach with his polished, aristocratic charm. "My brother is... particular about his tools. He's a craftsman first, a Lord second. I'm sure the Empress would be disappointed if her new 'Northern Star' was tarnished by a misunderstanding at the gate."
The guard grunted and stepped aside, signaling for the gate to rise. As they entered the inner city, the scale of the challenge became clear. Solstice was a hive of competing Alchemist Guilds, each with their own "secret" formulas. To succeed, Deacon wouldn't just need to talk to the Empress; he would need to win an Engineering Duel against the finest minds in the Empire.
"We have four hours before the evening petition," Julian whispered as they moved toward the guest villas. "What's the plan?"
"We don't go to the villa," Deacon said, looking at the towering silhouettes of the Great Guild Foundries in the distance. "We're going to find out who's supplying the coal for this city. If I'm going to build a new world, I need to know who owns the fuel."
Deacon's "Logistical Insight" began to map the city's trade flow. He wasn't a noble looking for a palace; he was a Sergeant establishing a forward operating base. The 800-chapter war for the Empire's future wouldn't be won with a single conversation. It would be won, piece by piece, through the control of the very iron Solstice sat upon.
"The audit begins tonight, Julian," Deacon said, a cold, focused fire in his eyes. "Let's see if the Capital is ready for a real Sergeant."